


The Handers Fairy - Satinalia 2015

by daggerpen



Series: Handers Fairy Fics [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Inquisition spoilers, M/M, Other, generally pg but the f bomb is in here so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 04:52:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 7,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5614621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daggerpen/pseuds/daggerpen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For December of 2015, I went around leaving various Handers bloggers a Handers ficlet a day. This is the compilation. Mild Trespasser spoilers here and there, little bit of swearing, a few minor alcohol references. Hawke gender and class left unspecified for maximum Handers goodness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s raining on Satinalia.

Not a light drizzle, either, or the freezing ice storms that Hawke had grown accustomed to during the winter months back in Ferelden, but a roaring thunderstorm that whipped rain through the streets at blistering speed and rattled the windows of the Hawke Estate.

Hawke’s had four years in Kirkwall now to get used to this, but even so, it just seems _wrong_ to them, how warm Kirkwall is this late in the year. Satinalia is supposed to be all snow and feasting, not lightning and miserable muddy streets.

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” comes Anders’ voice, shortly before his arms wrap around their shoulders.

“I suppose I should be glad for it,” Hawke says. “I always used to complain about the snow in Lothering, you know. Our cottage hardly had any insulation, and father would never use magic to warm anything.”

Anders nods, looking strangely distant. After a moment, he speaks, “I never really thought about snow before the Circle. I was a kid - I played in it, threw snowballs, made little spirits in the snow. I never thought I’d miss it so much in the Circle.” He frowns. “I suppose I’m still missing it now.”

“Anders-” Hawke says, but Anders just shakes his head.

“No, you’re right.” He takes Hawke’s hand, and smiles, just a little. “All things considered, this Satinalia… I _am_ grateful. Rain and all.”

“Flatterer,” Hawke teases.

“I do my best,” Anders says, leaning down for a kiss. Hawke returns it gladly, pulling him close before, eventually, they break apart.

“… still…” Hawke says slowly.

“What?” Anders asks.

“There’s no reason we can’t make this a proper Satinalia after all.”

Aveline comes to visit later that night, bringing wine and cheese as customary gifts, to find a mansion almost entirely bedecked in glimmering crystals of ice, a shivering, grinning Hawke and Anders greeting her at the door.

She decides it best not to ask.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Anders is prone to hyperbole.

It’s nothing he’s ever really meant much by. He’s just fond of speeches, dramatic gestures and sweeping declarations that appeal equally to him and the spirit who spent countless time rallying villagers in the remains of Blackmarsh. It’s just how he is.

Sometimes, though, Anders thinks Hawke takes him just a little too literally. And all right, maybe it’s nice to have someone who’ll take what he’s saying seriously for once. And maybe, just maybe, he’s enjoying this despite his reservations.

It’s not everyone, after all, who’ll swear to stand by an apostate in front of the world and the Knight-Commander. And it’s _certainly_ not every day that the newly titled Champion of Kirkwall passionately kisses that apostate in front of Meredith and every damned noble in Hightown.

“Still not sure about coming to the coronation?” Hawke asks with a grin.

“Shut up and kiss me again,” Anders says, and laughs.


	3. Chapter 3

It's these hours of the night that Hawke loves most.

Anders is glowing gently in his sleep, casting flickering shadows on the bed frame curtains, face lined with the Fade but not a single worry. And maybe this shouldn't mean so much to them, these quiet, peaceful hours, after the city has quieted for the night and before Anders' Clinic beckons in the morning, but Maker it does.

Kirkwall weighs, Meredith looming large in their waking hours, but for now... they have peace.


	4. Chapter 4

Hawke drags the comb through Anders’ hair, wrapping henna twists with careful fingers.

It's weird, the little intimate gestures they've developed over these fugitive months, but Hawke doesn't mind. "Varric will have to change your nickname, you know," they tease, waiting for the dye to set.

"I think 'Anders' is enough of one for now. Or should I change that too?" He frowns. "I never even told you my real name."

"Didn't you?" Hawke asks.

"Right you are, 'Hawke'," Anders laughs.

* * *

 


	5. Chapter 5

Anders had always wanted to travel. As a child - and, later, and adult - in the Circle, he’d hoarded any accounts of the strange and foreign places of Thedas he could get, filling his daydreams with images of everywhere from Denerim to Rivain. His frequent escapes had been focused largely on these sorts of adventures, even, and failed for the same reason, a tall blonde stranger fascinated by the sights quickly catching the attention of the local templars. 

Life with Hawke after Kirkwall isn’t what Anders had expected it to be. Not, he supposed, that he’d expected it at all - even if he’d thought he’d survive the destruction of the Chantry and the resulting rebellion, he would never in a hundred years have thought that Hawke would come with him. But when the reality had come, when Hawke had as much as grabbed his wrist and fled with him into the mountains, he’d figured that things would be difficult from then on out. 

To some extent, he was right. Guilt is a hard burden to live with, one perhaps even heavier for Justice than for Anders. They’re tired, and hunted, and constantly throwing themselves up against templar forces as they work their way through Circle after Circle rising up.  

But the one thing Anders hadn’t realized, in those initial uncertain days of guilt and blood and smoke, was that he would be spending his days from then on out traveling the world with the person he loved most at his side.

Rivain is nothing and everything he’d expected it to be, its cities full with celebrations and the most gloriously blatant apostasy he’s ever seen. Orlais is cold and uptight and has the strangest but best foods Anders has ever tasted. Antiva is warm and sunny, with easy breezes and a smell of sea air everything and nothing like Kirkwall. Cities and small villages alike, they make their way across Thedas, renting inns, receiving guest-welcome in Avvar holds, camping under stars clearer and denser than Anders had even thought possible.

It’s not freedom, exactly. Not yet. But whatever else, there will always be something truly amazing to Anders about being able to turn to his lover and ask, “Where to now?”

(Even Weisshaupt. Damn it, Hawke, _really_?)


	6. Chapter 6

Hawke wakes up to a cold, empty bed entirely too often these days.

Well, okay, no - that is, perhaps, a little petty of them. They understand fully the needs of Anders’ Clinic, their lover rising early each morning to make it to Darktown ahead of his patients. Hawke used to be an early riser, too, back in Lothering, waking with the sun to tend to their family’s crops. But between the gangs cleared out after dark and Anders’ frequent late nights on some duty or another - not to mention, they’ll admit, other, more enjoyable things keeping the lovers burning the midnight oil - Hawke had found themselves pushing sleep later and later, and not rising until well after Anders had left for the day.

It’s a minor enough thing, all things considered. Busy as their respective duties can keep them, they manage to scrounge enough time with each other, and as dilemmas go, Hawke would much rather go to bed with their lover than wake beside him.

Still. It’s their six month anniversary today, and it’s easily been a full three weeks since Hawke’s seen Anders any time before lunch. And so, yawning, rubbing sleep from bleary eyes, Hawke finds themself stumbling out of bed, Anders still snoring behind them.

* * *

 

Anders wakes to a cold, empty bed.

This, immediately, strikes him as wrong. Even on the nights when Hawke shuts the dog out of the room, his lover is never awake before he is. Anders bolts upright, fumbling for the ties on his bedclothes as he moves to slide out of bed, moments before he hears the rattle of the doorknob and sees his lover enter, preceded by… Maker, really?

“Oh, you’re awake!” Hawke says, smiling as they move over towards him, nudging him gently back into bed with an elbow.

“I could say the same to you,” Anders says, though he’s certainly not complaining as Hawke carefully maneuvers to sit beside him, positioning the tray across both of their laps.

“We haven’t seen enough of each other lately,” Hawke explains, scratching the back of their neck a little sheepishly. “I know you have to leave soon, but…” They gesture to the tray of food spread out before them. “Think you can manage a little breakfast in bed before you go?”

“For you?” Anders says, reaching for the nearest square of toast with one hand and pulling Hawke closer with the other. “I think I can make the time.”


	7. Chapter 7

“Do you ever want a nicer place?”  The question comes one evening, Anders’ lover walking him back from his Clinic.

“What brought this on?” Anders asks. 

“It's just sort of dismal,” Hawke says. “It'd be nice to spruce it up.” 

“I don't have time,” Anders replies, and doesn't understand Hawke's frown. Not until he enters next morning to see his Clinic _covered_ in glow runes, Hawke standing in the middle. “Happy Satinalia?” they say. (“Enchantment!” Sandal adds.) 

Anders just laughs.


	8. Chapter 8

Their first winter as fugitives is miserable.

Mage rebellion duties had called them far to the south of Ferelden, and Hawke is damned freezing. “Remind me again why we aren't making a fire?” Hawke asks. 

“It’ll give away our position,” Anders says, visibly shivering. 

“I'm sure there's _some_ way to keep warm…” 

“In this weather?” Anders laughs. “No, I have a better idea…”

Then again. Maybe there’s nothing like nailing a templar with a snowball at fifty paces to make a Satinalia. 


	9. Chapter 9

"You should learn to swim, you know.” They're lounging on the beach when Anders speaks, toes buried in the sand. Rivain is a lovely place to spend a winter. 

“I think you have a skewed sense of how useful that actually is in escaping templars,” Hawke jokes, eyes closed against the sinking sun. There'll be stars soon, dotted against the sky like freckles on a lover's back. 

“Who said anything about escaping templars?” Anders says. “I just want to introduce you to skinny dipping.” 


	10. Chapter 10

Anders is going home.

He can’t remember the last time he’s been able to say that. He can’t remember the last time he’s had a real _home_. He’d lost Ridden at the tender age of 12 to a burning barn and iron chains. The Circle, certainly, had never qualified. Vigil’s Keep has been close, once, but any chance of that had left with the Warden-Commander. And his Clinic is where he works, a sanctuary but not much of a place to live.

But Anders has a home now. An estate in Hightown with fancy carpeting and large windows and a dog he’s grown grudgingly fond of, with an odd assortment of live-in servants more friend than employee and a soft bed and drawers and desks and shelves just for him.

With Hawke.

Today has been terrible. The Clinic had been overflowing, the news from the Underground dire, Darktown feeling smaller and colder than ever. But it’s okay. It’s over now. And Anders is going home.


	11. Chapter 11

Anders had been born in fire. The boy he'd been had burned along with the barn, a name and a life stolen from him. For years after, brash and callow, he'd feared that fire, even as it sprang, unbidden, to his hands at any sign of danger, leaping to protect the master who cursed it. And it's funny, that the same Chantry that burns its eternal flames would hate the fire in his bones so thoroughly, but then again, he’d supposed Andraste _had_ been burned.

He'd burned the first Darkspawn he'd ever seen. If asked, he'd have said something about that being the way he'd always heard to deal with them - burn the bodies before the Blight can spread. In truth, though, he'd hardly been thinking of such things, desperate only to kill his attackers. That the fire had spread to the fallen remains of his captors, well… Anders wasn't sorry about that, by any means. Still, Anders _was_ a healer, as much as anything else, and fire became a welcome companion during his time in the Wardens.

Merrill had told him, once, that he burned like an inferno. He felt it, too, Justice roiling in his heart like Fade-cracks along his skin, and in private moments he thinks it's been there since long, long before Darkspawn blood and a deal with a spirit.

Anders does not like to do things by half measures. He hated it, sometimes, how easily he got carried away, his heart thrown into anything that caught its interest. The time he spent with Karl, the burning, choking rage at the templars who had taken him. The way his heart fluttered too quickly whenever Hawke came near, a month into knowing each other, and what a fool he was for falling so quickly for someone who he could never be with. The fact that he'd spent three damn years dodging and ignoring every flirtation they'd thrown his way, until he could ignore it no longer.

It had scared him, sometimes, too. The things that burned in him, rage and love and a million other things, threatening to escape his control, to consume all that he loved, to bring the templars down on him once again. It was hard to believe that it was that same passion that Hawke loved in him.

Anders is a healer. He knows enough to know that fire can cleanse, sometimes. That a wound must be cauterized, a body burned, that sometimes it's the only thing that can be done.

But he can't believe that Hawke can love him still, not while Kirkwall is burning around them and it's Anders’ fault.

So they'd run, hand in hand, into smoke and chaos, fanning the embers that Anders had lit, and Anders can only remember now what he'd said to Merrill - “Fire _can_ cleanse.”

Of course, maybe she'd had a point, too. Anders has learned, now, that some people _are_ worth believing in. Maybe he's even one of them.

They’ve stopped in a quiet clearing tonight, huddling together against the cold in their worn tent. It's too dangerous to make a proper camp, they agree reluctantly, the smoke a beacon for the searching templars. But under the safety of their ragged shelter, Anders sparks flames along his hands, not a hint of fear for the dry cloth around them, and wonders if this is what Hawke’s seen in him all this time.


	12. Chapter 12

For the first time in months, Hawke doesn't wake up alone.

Maker, they'd forgotten how good this felt. The warm weight at their back, the hand resting on their arm. It doesn't even matter that it's back to the hard, lumpy bedroll for the both of them (and just when they'd gotten used to Weisshaupt’s proper mattresses, too.)

Hawke stretches languorously, turning towards their lover to see a pair of warm brown eyes staring back at them.

“...have you been watching all night?” Hawke asks blearily.

“... not _all_ night,” Anders says, and has the decency to look a little embarrassed. Cautiously, he reaches out a hand, brushing hair from Hawke's eyes and smiling. “You're really back.”

“I'm really back,” they agree, taking his hand and pressing a gentle kiss to the palm.

They lay there in warm silence for a while, listening to the gentle noises of a forest waking around them, birdsong stirring in earnest now.

“Where are we going now?” Anders asks finally. “Beyond ‘away from Weisshaupt’.”

“Mmm, well…” Hawke stretches, thinking it over. “I guess it can be anywhere, can't it?” They pause, brushing light fingers over Anders’ face. “We don't have to run anymore, you know. The templars are gone now. The Circles have been dissolved. The only army the Chantry has left anymore helped me pack my bags for the Anderfels. I'm not saying we go around announcing ourselves to every small-town Chantry mother, but… no one's chasing us.”

“... I know.” Anders frowns in thought, leaning into Hawke's touch. “... maybe still _not_ the Free Marches anytime soon,” he says, and his voice strains slightly on the joke but Hawke still laughs. “... Ferelden,” he says eventually.

“You sure?” Hawke asks, surprised.

“I am,” he said. “Perhaps not forever, but…” he glances down and lets out a small laugh. “I always had a sort of… romantic notion when I was younger. When I finally escaped for good, I'd become a traveling healer, seeing all Ferelden’s different shades of muck and meeting people. It's silly, I know-”

“I don't think it's silly at all,” Hawke says, and Anders smiles. Hawke kisses him then, gentle and lasting, before reluctantly sitting up. “All right then. Ferelden it is. Just a pair of young-at-heart not-quite-fugitives roaming the land. We _are_ out of ancient horrors I've killed that refuse to stay dead, right?”

“I'm putting my gold on Xebenkeck,” Anders snarks back. “Nothing good ever comes from disturbing the ancient demonic lair under Kirkwall.”

“If Xebenkeck rises from the dead and lays siege Thedas, you can bloody well come along to kill him this time,” Hawke tells him. “Until then, I'm making us some breakfast.”


	13. Chapter 13

They’d had a mansion once. A sprawling, empty thing full of plush carpeting and silk sheets. They’d had safety there, the mantle of the Champion shielding all who lived within, apostate or no. 

Now, such luxuries are barest memory, a bedroll and worn tent between them and templars on their heels. 

But they have a dog, and a campfire, and stars brighter than anything. They have each other. 

"That’s me,” Hawke thinks, Anders’ hand warm in theirs. “Always moving up in the world.”


	14. Chapter 14

Anders actually rather likes sailing.

He's a little surprised to realize it. He hardly has the fondest memories of his voyage to Kirkwall, but then again, he supposes, a hasty flight on a cramped smuggler ship, possession fresh and Anders and Justice still unsure how to work with their shared mind, can hardly compare to a full-fledged _pirate_ ship.

“I'll take that as a compliment,” Isabela laughs when he voices the thought, looking more at home than ever on the rolling seas. Merrill seems happy, too, exploring the large vessel happily - “It's so much nicer like this,” Merrill explains. “Everyone actually fits!” Anders wishes most of them didn't know exactly what she meant.

Varric, meanwhile, seems to have more or less barred himself in his cabin, complaining of seasickness. Fenris and Aveline largely seem to be avoiding Anders, which suits him just fine. And as for Hawke…

“How are you, Anders?” Hawke asks in a low voice, standing by his side as the two stare over the railing. “We haven't really gotten to… talk. Since Kirkwall.”

Anders watches the waves quietly, thinking over his answer. “... strange,” he manages eventually. “I didn't expect to see any of this.”

“I know.” Hawke frowns at their hands, wringing them, then begins, “Anders-” but Anders cuts them off.

“I know,” he says. “I should have told you. I should have trusted you. I'm sorry.”

“Fuck that. I don't care about that. Just-” they grab his hand, suddenly, holding tight. “Damn it, Anders, I was _worried_ about you. You just stopped talking to me. You gave Varric your mother's pillow. Just…” They turn to him fully now, both his hands in theirs. “I'd never hurt you, Anders. _Never._ You know that, right?”

“I know. Now.” Anders squeezes their hands back, holding tight. “Thank you, love. For everything.”

“No more secrets?” Hawke asks.

“None.” Anders draws closer. “I trust you, Hawke. I love you. More than anything.”

Hawke smiles. “You're the most important thing in my life, Anders.” Together, the two of them look back over the railing. The sun is setting now, turning the waves a brilliant orange, and for the first time, Anders realizes they can go anywhere now. “And I know there are things more important than either of us. So we fight together. And when we're done, I swear to you… there won't be a damned templar left to tear us apart.”


	15. Chapter 15

“I always liked birds, you know,” Anders says, sitting in Hightown. “It's nice to see some year-round here.”

“... they're pigeons,” Hawke says dubiously. Anders laughs. 

“They're nice enough birds.” He pauses. “I used to dream I could just… grow wings and fly away. Turns out you can actually _do_ that, but it’s hardly anything the Circle teaches.”

“Oh.” Hawke watches the birds with him. “... wait, is this the story behind your coat?”

“You really need to get over my coat, love.” 


	16. Chapter 16

The place hasn't been touched in decades when they find it. It's covered in vines, stone crumbling and windows cracked, to say nothing of the state of the gardens.

“At least the roof’s intact?” Hawke offers, scratching their nose nervously.

“You really paid money for this place?” Anders can't help but ask.

“Sight unseen, even.” Hawke frowns. “Mother wanted it…” They trail off, and Anders finds their hand in his.

“Let's go inside, then,” he says, and they walk in together.

* * *

They throw out half of what they find.

The beds are gone entirely, as are all the curtains. The portraits, after some thought, they save as best they can, the faces of strange family hung about crumbling walls.

The work is hard, even with magic. They can reconstruct the fallen stone well enough with spells, but the scrubbing they have to do by hand, as well as the extensive weeding.

“Do you really think this will work?” Anders asks one day, the two sitting on the one remaining chaise lounge in tolerable condition that's been serving as their bed. “It seems too… obvious, I suppose.”

“Honestly? I don't know.” Hawke shrugs. “But you've seen how it is out there. No one cares about a pair of old fugitives anymore. Not with the war over and the new Divine on our side.” Hawke leans closer. “Besides, you heard what they were saying in town. Most hardly even remember this used to be the Amell country estate. I doubt anyone will make the connection.”

“If you say so.” Anders puts up his feet. “I'll admit, it'll be nice to have a place of our own again.”

“Just us and a few hundred rats.” Hawke laughs. “We'll need a whole army of mousers.”

“I'm okay with this.”

* * *

“Maker. This place is huge.” Anders can't seem to stop saying this, more and more as they get it into proper living shape. “We could fit ten of the Kirkwall Estates in here.”

“Townhouses are always smaller,” Hawke replies, not for the first time. “That's the way of it.”

“Yes, but we're never going to get this place _clean_ ,” Anders says, and laughs.

* * *

They get the letter maybe a week after the ceremony.

“Maker. Viscount, really?” Hawke can't seem to stop laughing. Anders can't either - he can only imagine how they'd made the dwarf agree to _that _.__

“I should write him,” Hawke says. “It's been too long.”

“Not visit?” Anders asks.

“Not _that_ long.” Hawke stretches. “Besides, and leave you and the chickens alone with the dog? We only just fixed the walls, you know.”

* * *

The garden is coming along nicely. Hawke had been worried it wouldn't be ready by spring, but the whole area is lined with neat little rows, growing elfroot and spindleweed and herbs of all sorts, with the lower fields reserved for food crop. Hawke doubts the two of them alone can manage more than a small plot, magic or no. Some peas and carrots and potatoes for soup, maybe a few chickens. It'll be enough.

They've got the place more or less livable now. They've taken a small room in the back, nothing too fancy, but they've a proper mattress now, three cats and a dog.

“I think we're ready,” Anders says one day, looking over it all.

“Are you sure?” Hawke asks. “We're still short on cots, not to mention the curtains, and I thought you wanted the elfroot to be farther along?”

“There'll always be something,” Anders just days with a shrug. “We may as well start now.”

“All right.”

* * *

Hawke, it seems, had been worried for nothing. Not something that happens a lot, but this one time, Hawke can't exactly say they mind being wrong.

The patients trickle in slowly, at first. Word takes a while to spread, and the villagers are wary of magic and the old, ‘haunted’ Estate both. It's mostly the worst cases then, those too desperate to be fearful. But Autumn hasn't even begun before the farmers have come to trust them, and there's always a few patients here and there, anything from minor sprains and coughs to serious injuries.

They don't charge, of course, but the assorted villagers bring food now and again, and between that, the odd jobs Hawke takes and their gardens, they live comfortably enough.

It's good.

It's home.


	17. Chapter 17

It's been a slow day in Anders’ Clinic.

It's been a slow day in the Hawke Estate, too - they're between odd jobs at the moment, and with the recent fortifications to the docks completed, the duties of the Champion are rather light at the moment.

“We could go about Hightown, take in a show.” Hawke's sitting on the desk again, legs swinging back and forth as Anders writes beside them. He's putting the finishing finishing touches on the latest draft of his manifesto, but there's little left to do, and he's still waiting on the paper to begin scribing copies. “Or Lowtown, if we're looking for something bawdier. I hear there's a new troupe that's a literal riot - Aveline _hates_ them, so they must be fun.” 

“Do you know when they're performing next?” Anders asks, pen scratching idly.

“Well, no.” Hawke pauses in their movement, legs hanging as they think. “We could hit the market. I've got some scraps I may as well sell sometime.”

“We finally get a day off and you want to spend it shopping?” Anders asks. “Or are you trying to buy me a new coat again? I won't let you; this one has a while left in it.”

“A restaurant, then?” Hawke offers. “We could give Orana a night off.”

“We already had lunch, and supper’s not for hours,” Anders reasons.

“Well then-” Hawke begins, but Anders interrupts them.

“Hawke.” That's the last sentence. He sets his quill down, capping his inkwell. “We have nothing to do and no one in the Estate. Why would we need to _go_ anywhere?”

“... _oh_.” Hawke hops down from their perch, drawing closer. “Well, in _that_ case…”

As it turns out, the Hawke Estate has plenty to occupy them today after all.


	18. Chapter 18

It's funny now, Justice’s worry that Hawke was a distraction.

Not that either of them had realized what it would mean. That his feelings would be returned. That he would be loved, deep and pure and real.

That he would be happy.

He'd faltered before, alone and struggling, to throw off what the Chantry had beaten into him, but he knows now. He deserves to be free. They all do. Anders had learned that on his own.

But Hawke helps him remember, and Maker, it couldn't mean more.


	19. Chapter 19

Anders is covered in flour. Hawke's hands are sticky with egg and the bits of chocolate they'd bought special for the occasion. Not that it shows in the final product, charred lumps stuck to the tin sheet.

“Well, it went better than last time?” Anders offers.

“At this rate, we'll have something edible by our fifth year!” Hawke says.

“Time for our usual Satinalia tradition?” Anders asks.

“I'll have Orana start the cookies,” Hawke replies. “In the meantime, you draw the bath.”


	20. Chapter 20

“I wish we could stay like this forever, love.”

Anders had murmured the words once, half asleep and covered in wounds and brambles from the disastrous end to the Chateau Haine wyvern hunt heist, doubtfully even meant for his lover to hear. Hawke, then, had just stroked a thumb over his hand, pulling him close with half lidded eyes as they tried not to think about what lay in wait for them in Kirkwall.

And why was it, they had thought, that their lives were always so plagued by this sort of thing? That the templars couldn’t leave them alone, that the mages couldn’t live free and the city couldn’t settle, that they had to steal moments of peace amongst the unfolding chaos?

“I wish we could, too,” they’d returned once Anders had fallen asleep on their shoulder, holding him close as they waited for what was to come.

They’re fugitives now, of course. Kirkwall is lost to them, the cost of rebellion high, and they are exhausted and worn and hunted constantly.

But even so.

Hawke feels the weight of Anders’ head against their shoulder, the warmth of his body against theirs in the comparative shelter of their tent, and smiles, a gentle kiss brushed to his forehead.

They can’t stay like this forever, they know. But no matter what, they will stay together. And perhaps that’s enough.


	21. Chapter 21

"Hawke brings him the armchair first. “It must be more comfortable than a hard wooden chair,” they say reasonably.

The blanket is next, soft and heavy around his shoulders. “It's getting cold,” they explain, stoking the fire.

His mother’s pillow - “For your neck.” Finally, a cloth and tooth scrub - “Now you can go right to bed when you're done writing.”

Anders wakes the next morning, well rested and with a distinct feeling of ambush.

… Hawke's left him breakfast, though.


	22. Chapter 22

Anders closes his Clinic early today.

He feels a little strange doing so, unable to quite escape the nagging doubts, but his regulars know how to send for him in an emergency, and he’s left a small stash of poultices and basic salves out for anyone who might need.

Hawke meets him at the exit to Darktown, in finery that makes Anders feel underdressed, but they assure him it’s fine.

“I wouldn’t have you in anything else.”

Café d'Or is hardly the sort of place to let him in most days, but with the Champion as escort, they get a lovely table in the back, away from prying eyes.

And it’s funny now, thinking of his old wants, a lover, a decent meal and the right to shoot lightning at fools. Things are more complicated than that now, he reflects ruefully, and maybe they always were, but even so. Maybe today, just for today, two out of three will do.

“Happy anniversary, Anders,” Hawke says with a kiss, and they toast gladly to the years to come.


	23. Chapter 23

Satinalia’s too quiet here.

In Ferelden, it’d been marked by wild parties and masked antics. Here in the more pious Kirkwall, the streets are deserted, celebrants opting for quiet dinners with families. Hawke and Anders had almost joined them. But in the end, it hardly feels like Satinalia without a little chaos, and the Gallows are so shamefully unguarded today.

“Happy Satinalia, love,” Anders says, and kisses Hawke while the ice water rains down on Captain Cullen’s head.


	24. Chapter 24

“If I'd known getting stabbed would get you to stay home for once, I'd have done it ages ago.”

“You're not funny.” Anders pulls the bandage away, examining the injury with tentative fingers. “It’s healing well,” he says, then suddenly throws his arms around his lover. “Don’t ever do that again. That duel… I shouldn’t have let you. We should have fought together,” Anders mumbles into their neck. “I thought I’d lost you.”

“Never,” Hawke replies, pulling him close. “I promise.”


	25. Chapter 25

It's the eighth night since he'd moved in with Hawke, and Anders wakes up in his Clinic.

The routine is so old, and his relationship with Hawke is so new, that, half asleep, he doesn't even realize what's wrong at first, wondering why the crick in his neck seems so unfamiliar, why his wakening seems so cold. It's a few more seconds before the realization hits him like a slap to the face, and he jerks upright, panickedly examining the worn timepiece Hawke had gotten him a few years ago. And Maker, it's the small hours of the morning, and he hadn't even left word to Hawke, and he doesn't. He doesn't know what to do now. Should he leave for Hightown now? Risk waking Hawke? Should he wait until the morning? But what if Hawke is waiting up for him? He doesn't-

His train of thought is interrupted by a loud, sudden snore from behind him, and he whips around to see… Hawke, slumped in a chair behind him, sound asleep.

Oh.

_Oh._

“Hawke?” he whispers quietly, nearing the slumbering figure, who stirs, bleary eyes flickering open to focus on him.

“... Anders?” they murmur sleepily, then yawn, rubbing their neck. “Oh, Maker, I'm sorry. You looked so tired and I didn't have the heart to wake you, I didn’t mean to drift off like that.”

He can't help but laugh, pleased and disbelieving, and at Hawke’s questioning look he just shakes his head.

“Let's just get home and get a proper bed,” Anders suggests, helping Hawke to their feet, and they walk, hand in hand, back to Hightown.

It's the eighth night since he'd moved in with Hawke, and there will be more nights when circumstance conspires that they sleep apart. But there will always be a lover who understands, and a bed for him here when he can use it, and Anders can rest a little easier for it.


	26. Chapter 26

It's too muddy to walk. And they've tried, too, trudging bravely on through the already marshy territory before finally giving up when Anders sunk knee-deep into a particularly bad spot.

It's the rain. Three days now without a let up, and there's nothing left to do now but wait it out.

So they sit, half-sheltered, under the questionable protection of high trees and aging canvas, perched delicately on one of the large roots.

“It's warm enough, at least,” Hawke observes, breaking into their rations as they watch the strangely light clouded sky. “For Haring.”

“It really is. It's like spring in the middle of winter. I don't mind, though. I always liked rain. Shows you're really outside.” Anders leans back, staring into the distance pensively. “Did you ever hear Isabela talk about Rivaini weather magic?”

“Once or twice,” Hawke replies. “They have mages to keep the storms down, right?”

“Well, more or less,” he tells them. “They have weeks scheduled where they'll just let them rage. They say it's bad luck to hold off a storm for too long, or something like that. But the rest of the time, they'll keep things calm. Helps with the shipping, you know?”

“Kirkwall could have used that,” Hawke says.

“Kirkwall could have,” Anders agrees. “Everywhere could, I think. Think of all the droughts it could solve, or all the snowy Satinalias we could have scheduled. But they never taught it outside of Rivain.”

“Why not? It's not something anyone could use to escape, is it?”

Anders shrugs. “Not enough profit, perhaps? They never tell it openly, but that's all they care about. Everyone loves spirit healers and enchanting - nobles will pay for the nose for that. Battle magic? That's for Darkspawn and Chantry-sanctioned targets. But where's the gold in helping some poor farmers make it through the winter?” He shakes his head. “Magic is meant to serve man, for a substantial profit margin.”

“Huh.” It makes sense, but they have nothing to add, just taking a slow drink to wash down their trail rations.

“Have they gotten any closer, by the way?” Anders asks after a moment, stretched idly with his back against the trunk.

“Ah, let me check-” Hawke stands, squinting through the heavy rain-fog. They can barely make out the silhouettes of the armored figures in the distance, indistinguishable as templars through the gloom. “Still a good ways away.” They narrow their eyes further, then laugh, flopping back down next to their lover. “I think the Lieutenant got stuck again.”

“Oh, it'll be hours before they get him back out,” Anders laughs, taking the wineskin back from Hawke.

“You know, now that I think about it, maybe they _did_ have another reason not to teach you all weather magic.”

“You might be right,” Anders says with a loose shrug, shielding his eyes as he watches their struggling pursuers. “Hey, do you think I could hit one with a fireball from here?”

“In this weather? I bet you the dry spot for the night that you can't.”

“Oh, you're on.”


	27. Chapter 27

“... they'll be expecting me to throw a party for First Day, won't they?” The realization seems to occur to Hawke halfway through dressing for the morning, his lover half into their sleeves.

“The nobles, you mean?” Anders leans back on the bed, watching them. “I suppose they will,” he muses. “The newly titled Champion of Kirkwall, spending the holiday alone with friends? Perish the thought.”

“Perish the thought indeed,” Hawke says, finishing their buttons. “I don't suppose I could get away with just attending someone else's and save myself the trouble? Do you think that'd be suitably social for the event?”

“You _do_ have your share of invitations,” Anders observes. “Of course, accepting one over the other may send the wrong message, too.”

“... Maker, you’re right.” Hawke groans, flopping back on the bed next to their lover. “I don't suppose there's any way for me to spend the season that _won't_ risk scandalizing someone or another?”

“I don't suppose,” Anders says dryly, and Hawke just laughs. Then, suddenly, they go quiet, staring at the ceiling thoughtfully. Anders leans over. “Oh no. What's _that_ look for?”

“Were you and Lirene still thinking of doing something for the Ferelden refugees?” Hawke asks neutrally. “A feast or something?”

“Yes, but we didn't know where to -” and all at once, the the understanding strikes him. “You don't mean-”

“Well, _apparently_ , I'm doomed to scandalize half of Hightown no matter what I do.” The grin they shoot him is downright devious. “I may as well send the _right_ message here.”

“I love you,” Anders says.

“I love you, too,” they say with a kiss.

The party planning isn't easy. But altogether, it's the best First Day they've had in years.

Perhaps this “Champion” thing suits them after all.


	28. Chapter 28

“You look good with your hair down.” Hawke runs a finger through his bangs, smiling. “Well, you look good in general, but still. It suits you.”

Anders laughs. “Do you think so?” He winds the tie. “I used to wear it up properly.”

“What changed?”

“This is easier.” He gathers the hair in a hand, securing the half ponytail. “I just need it out of my face, really.”

“Hm.” Hawke tugs at the tie and smiles, the token red against the blonde. “Then again… maybe I prefer this after all.”


	29. Chapter 29

“I’m running out of ideas,” Anders says quietly one night, staring at the blank parchment in front of him.

“I never thought I’d see the day when you put down the pen,” Hawke jokes, but their heart’s not really in it.

“They’re not going to listen this time either, are they?” Anders spins the quill in long fingers and frowns. “I’ve tried every word I have to make them. It doesn’t matter.”

“I disagree.” Hawke slides closer, cupping his face. “Do you know what it would have meant to us, to see this in Lothering? A family of runaway apostates? What it must mean to the runaway mage, the child with fire in their hands?” Hawke shakes their head. “You can’t run a revolution with one person, Anders. You can’t force someone to change their mind. But you can show people they’re not alone. You can give them hope.” They gesture to the paper. “You’re writing the world as it should be. Ask Varric sometime, how much power there is in that.”

“You really believe that?” Anders asks, looking up at Hawke.

“With all my heart,” Hawke tells him.

Anders smiles, and picks up his pen.


	30. Chapter 30

There are too many children among them, scared and orphaned, with no idea what to do with their magic.

Anders hates it, sometimes, seeing the faces of the children. Some are barely apprentices, some not even that, runaways and refugees fallen in with the one place they can hope for anything resembling safety. 

“It's not like they'd have been any safer in the Circle,” Hawke reminds him. Hawke always reminds him, when he needs it - Anders doesn't know he'll ever stop being thankful for that. “At least this way, they'll be free when they're grown.”

“I'd still like to do something.”

“Fighting isn't something?” 

“Something _more._ ”

It starts small. They fall into it more than anything, a side project while they're with the rebel mages regardless. The lessons are short at first, Hawke remembering what they can of Malcolm’s childhood demonstrations while Anders demonstrates. They're practical by necessity - controlling fire, healing small wounds. Who to turn for to help. Who _not_ to turn to. 

That changes after the war. Well, _everything_ changes after the war, the new Divine on their side, but even so. The new College of Enchanters is a beacon of hope, a rebirth for the mages of Southern Thedas, but a start is only a start, and there's so much left to build. And the College is small still, centralized, and while the mages are at least free now, it's a terrible thing, to have to choose between family and education.

So they start small, start over. Traveling villages, a few months here, a few there. It's just the two, at first, just the basics and some books to look over while they're gone. But the mages are free now, and it's not long before more seek out homes they haven't seen in years, or find new ones entirely.

They aren't the best, or the worst. There are instructors better, more skilled, more patient. Most don't even know them, something perhaps for the best. But Maker, Anders doesn't know that he'll ever tire of it, the look on a student's face the first time flesh knits under their hands, the look of relief on a friend's, a neighbor’s face.

There's so much yet left to do, they know. But it's a new world, one changing and recovering from the scars of the last. And if there's one thing Anders knows, it's healing. Worlds and patients both.


	31. Chapter 31

It's First Day tomorrow, and they're spending the night in the Hanged Man.

It's the first of the many notable snubs to come for the newly titled Champion of Kirkwall, Hawke choosing to spend the holiday with their loved ones rather than the nobles of Hightown. It's tradition, after all, on First Day, to spend the time with friends and neighbors, and the denizens of the Hanged Man are more that than anyone in Hightown, proximity be damned. They'll have to learn, in the future, to balance such things, coming around to reluctant power games for the sake of the same people they toast to tonight, but for now, there is only music and the laughter of friends.

Varric is writing in the corner, on and off over his drink, speech and letters equally flowing as he chatters with the various patrons. The epic of the Qunari Invasion, he'll tell anyone who asks, with grand words and gestures. Keep an eye out for it on the stands soon. And it'll be four years before he publishes it, half fact and half legend and none the story he'd expected to tell, too jagged around the edges of Kirkwall, but tonight he'll tell anyone who'll listen of the tale, Hawke politely deferring to him whenever they're asked of it.

Isabela is here tonight. Before the week is out, she'll have left Kirkwall, not to return for nearly three years. Now, though, she props herself up against Merrill's shoulders, cheering as Fenris arm wrestles Aveline - and loses. And if she winces, herself, every time the set of Hawke’s shoulders remind her of a duel for her sake and a Qunari sword through Hawke's chest, not yet healed, well, she doesn't let it ruin the festivities.

And if Anders has any lingering resentment, himself, he does not show it, contenting himself to fuss over Hawke, the mage at Hawke's side, laughing and groaning in equal measures as he hands over the payment of tonight’s ill-fated bet before playing another hand. It's the first either of them have gone out in a week, days spent in bed recovering. He'll be going out less and less, in the years to come, driven to desperation by the Knight-Commander, but he'll remember this night even so, keep it close to him over long fugitive nights with Hawke at his side and the templars at their heels.

“I'd like to propose a toast!” Hawke says five minutes before the bell, glass raised and Anders steadying them with a fond chuckle. “To friends, to family, to lovers!” They pull Anders closer. “To someone else cleaning up the last of the Qunari mess!” they add, and everyone laughs, the last flurry of new rounds before midnight.

And when the clock strikes 12 at last, ringing throughout the streets, they kiss, Hawke and Anders, together and happy and Hawke only a little tipsy. They have no idea, tonight, of what the future holds in store for them, but they could hardly care less. They know, in this moment, that whatever else happens, they will see it together, hand in hand.

They do.


End file.
